TREE TRIALS

Join me for a visit to Christmas past. Not that long ago. . .

 

One of  our cast of characters. You've probably seen her picture at PetSmart under a sign that says WARNING.

It’s half past tree-decorating time. I have a collection of beautiful and delicate heirloom ornaments handcrafted to celebrate joy and reflect the beauty of the Christmas season.

In a box in the basement. 

Why?

Because nothing says Here Comes Santa Claus like shards of memories and broken glass scattered across the living room Oriental to impale the toes of random passers-by on their way to the kitchen for a snack. And with centuries of experience, the reindeer are finicky about landing on a roof that’s decorated in a festive pawprint motif. Santa is understandably anxious about a house that decorates with broken balls.

 A week ago, we decked the halls, shook out the tree skirt, and festooned the boughs and branches of the well-worn, but guaranteed to remain life-like, evergreen with symbols of good will toward men. The evergreen that has a permanent, cat-shaped hole in the middle.

The next morning the tree exploded. I thought the star had gone supernova.  

A black ball of fangs and fur flew past in a cloud of glitter and tinsel, and a tabby with a surprised and somewhat bewildered expression catapulted from the center of the Christmas tree, ricocheted off the La-Z-Boy, and careened into the hall, where it scattered laundry baskets like bowling pins. The vacuum cleaner succumbed to a change in air pressure and current and performed a magnificent backflip, neatly taking out a stack of newly washed towels on an end table. A black and white furball with years of experience grabbed a gold ball with a luminous snowflake pattern and headed downfield like an Olympian about to score a gold medal goal.

The tree was shredded like a delicate interoffice memorandum and teetered like a ballerina with sore feet before it crash-landed on the hardwood floor.The Pit Bull, who is leery of the cats' shenanigans and who learned emergency maneuvers during the last hurricane, hid under the coffee table with his favorite knucklebone for rations.

 But within minutes the tree was up and re-decorated in its Christmas finery.

 Its Christmas plastic finery.

 In a move of inspiration and lightning-fast reaction to a scene of destruction in our living room years ago, Bill rushed out and snapped up all the dazzling, heirloom plastic ornaments that WalMart had to offer.

 Of course, our tree looks like the toddler aisle at Toys R Us on Black Friday.

 If our Christmas tree were a Muppet, it would be Miss Piggy.

Where other homes have trees that reflect good taste and tradition, our tree is a reflection of our life choices. We don’t have family photos on our walls so much as mug shots.

Because sometimes Peace on Earth looks more like Earth in Pieces. It just takes a little love to keep it all together.

 And maybe some duct tape.

 Hold your loved ones together with whatever it takes.

 Merry Christmas!

 

Party Animal

Because I am a kind person, a loyal helpmate, and a good wife--and because I’m not presently holding any husband guilt points in abeyance--I waved merrily as the Captain of our Dreamboat sailed off on an adventure that will take him out of local legal jurisdiction, across the state line, and eat up the weekend like Pac-Man eats little white dots. His transportation is a pollen-encrusted Saturn that is older than our cat, Sabertooth, and his fuel is the energy that comes from a weekend away from trash duty.

Lord knows I have plenty to do around the house to keep me busy, what with oiling the grout and shaving the sticky parts off the carpet. This afternoon I’ll probably hike out to the porch and check the mail. And that WalMart excursion isn’t going to take care of itself. There’s PineSol to be bought. So, with a grocery list that’s worth more than most treasure maps and an eye toward the endless amusement that comes from watching customers in pursuit of low prices and cheap thrills, it’s WalMart Ho! (Which is one of those peculiar expressions fraught with hidden meanings, all of which are curiously correct.)

I’m glad he’s making this trip. I’ll grab the opportunity to rearrange his underwear drawer to provide comic relief when he tries to get dressed in the dark come Monday morning. But still, I’ll admit to a little bit of stress-relief envy. It’s not the fact that he’ll probably go more than 24 hours without uttering the words, “I don’t care who started it, I’m going to finish it!” The main difficulty for me is the knowledge that by now he has had entire conversations with people who don’t consider an eye roll, shoulder shrug, and porcine grunt to be standard methods of communication. People who hold responsible positions in society and are not presently enrolled in the ten year college plan, payable in blood, sweat, and a decade of eating from McDonald’s dollar menu.

But at least I can finally have all the girls over for that lingerie party we’ve talked about for so long. Now I’ve just got to make sure nobody does anything crazy, like posting all the information on the Internet where everybody in the world can see, and alert him to the fact that I’m not quite ready for him to come back. The kids are gone, though, and the only one home is that crazy Labrador of his who he’s been trying to train to use the computer. Yeah, right.



PARTY TIME!

50 Is Not A Speed Trap (It's My Birthday!)

Some of my friends are slowing down for 50. Not me. I'm hitting the gas and leaving three feet of tire marks and twenty dollars worth of fumes behind me. I'm not complaining about my life so far--I'm married to the man of my dreams who hardly ever looks at me like I've taken leave of my senses, and I have two sons who can play Guitar Hero like they were born with Stratocasters in their hands. I just don't want the next 50 years to be the second lap of the same race.

Sure, I'm slower. I'm slower to get angry. And I'm heavier. I’m carrying some wonderful memories along with me. But they don't have a parking space near the Pearly Gates reserved for those that are pokey and fat. So, God willing, I’m gathering myself up to forge ahead, full throttle, without thinking whether this 5-0 bump in the road will send me soaring into the blue or skidding into a ditch.

I'm going flat out, full speed, wide open and see where it takes me. Whether it’s around the next left-hand turn or into the pit, there’s a story waiting to unfold. I’ll have plenty of time later when I'm done with the race and waiting to see who comes in second to check out the rear view and see what I left behind. If I'm still interested.

I'm going to make as many people laugh as I can today, I’ll put off crying until tomorrow, and I’ll learn to dance the can can without throwing out a hip.

I can hunt my walking stick and liniment later. WalMart stays open all night.

Wonder if they’ll rotate my tires.

Puppy Class Is No Treat

I don’t have a dog. I have a WalMart greeter that drools and wags his tail. Slobberchops is the canine equivalent of a used car salesman; he’s always happy to see you and anxious to share what you’ve got in your pocket. He’s also the size of a Pinto, the car not the horse, and his output is likely combustible. However, he is not cost efficient to operate, and pound for pound can pack away more fuel than a fully loaded Kenworth.

Why didn’t I get a dog with a job who can finance his liver habit, like Lassie, who was the canine equivalent to a First Responder? Timmy’s in the well? Lassie checks his doggie utility belt, throws a coil of rope over one shoulder, and rakes in twenty grand in photo ops. Instead, I ended up with a Lab-Dalmation mix who wouldn’t go near a well if it was filled with Swedish meatballs. His attitude is firm on this: if there’s not a squirrel involved, it’s best to contract out.

But he’s a real dog. He produces a an actual throaty bark instead of an annoying toy dog yipyap, has feet large enough to do real damage if a misstep takes him near your toes, and is large enough to see in the hallway late at night when you’re on a sweet tea-induced pit stop.

But I’m of the popular, but slightly misguided opinion that everyone should experience the unconditonial love and stinky goo-filled treads on your shoes that make dog-ownership a fulfilling experience. If Nike knew I’d be wearing their tennis shoes out in the doggie obstacle course late at night they might have reconsidered their “Just Do It” campaign. (Of course, I also think everybody should skin a chicken once in their lives or cook a meal without using any product that has the word “easy” on the package, but that attitude isn’t helping my bid for Team Mom.)

So last Saturday, for penance, I accompanied my sister and her “dog” to Puppy Class. This animal looks like a cross between a wild Dingo and a housecat. She’s an unusual shade of dark tan, has ears that look like the wings on a glider, and she’s not afraid of anything in the world, except tall, dark, men with deep voices. So maybe she’s smarter than I thought.

I can’t think what sort of heinous crime I committed to submit myself to the cuteness overload at Puppy Class. I’m leaning toward the grudge theory since I was the one who told my sister to take the thing home in the first place. Anyway there I sat surrounded by tufts of fur and rhinestone collars, seated between a hairball and an earmuff, which seemed safe enough until somebody accidentally dropped a cheese treat on the floor. Then there was enough fur flying to style toupees for Michael Jordan, Bruce Willis, and pre-rehab Britney—with enough left over to make her a little terrier to carry around in her pocketbook.

We sat with the defendant at the pet store, squinting through our bifocals and filling out the paperwork for obedience school. Puppy whiled away her time making mulch out of my glasses case while we filled in the blanks.

Under description, the form asked for color. We regarded the dog. “She’s, well, brownish” I said, chewing the eraser off the pencil.

“Put taupe,” my sister said, caressing the fiend’s ears.

“Taupe? Dogs don’t come in taupe. Stockings come in taupe. Designer shoes come in taupe.” I glanced down at the dog who was sitting on my foot and drooling down my instep. “Dogs come in brown.”

My sister gave me the same look I got the time she caught me trying on her toe shoes when we were kids.

T-A-U-P-E, I wrote on the form, then paused.

“It says distinguishing characteristics.”

“None. Unless you count her endearing personality.”

I shook the creature off my shoe and cleared my throat. “That would be her ears.”

“What do you mean, her ears? They’re lovely.”

“She looks like a sailboat in full wind.”

“Sure says the person whose dog has one Dalmation spot on his. . .”

“Shut up. That spot is an inheritance from this mother.”

“Well it looks like he has two. . .”

“Shut UP.” I clipped her smartly on the ear with the pad holding the obedience form.

“You’re just jealous because your dog is afraid of the dark.” She poked me in the ribs.

“At least mine doesn’t dive in his water bowl like a submarine performing evasive maneuvers.”

Suddenly two sharp blasts of water hit us right in the middle of our discussion. Our attention immediately focused on a short lady wearing a navy blue shirt and a stern look and holding a water bottle set for stun.

“Ladies, if you can’t behave in Puppy Class, you’ll be subject to disciplinary measures. Now come join the class please. There are your chairs. Sit. Stay.”

So in the end, obedience school turned out just fine. I learned the importance of group activity, how to sit quietly, and to keep my paws to myself.

Foundations of Fire

*Warning! If you are a teenaged boy who lives in the approximate vicinity of the back bedroom of my house and does not allow his mother to say the word “underwear” in public, do not read the following post. To those of you who have ever gone a little wrong in the laundry room, you’ll understand the situation perfectly.

I found out I couldn’t follow directions when I was in the produce section at WalMart.

I was comparing kiwis and kumquats when I felt an unwelcome sensation in what can only be described as the area “where foundations meet the flesh.” It began as a smallish itch under the elastic band and quickly spread to the sensation of having a thousand mosquitoes trapped in the no-nonsense sections of my Fruit of the Looms. This is what it must be like when the entire New York Giants football team wears their uniform pants without running them through the rinse cycle. I began defensive slap-dance maneuvers designed to relieve the feeling that my underwear had a personal grudge against my skin.

Over by the plums, a mother pushing a toddler in her buggy popped a wheelie and crashed into a produce scale while trying to execute a U-turn.

Once my Hanes Her Way became Hanes No Way, I realized something had to be done. In an effort to soothe the beast devouring my tender skin, I danced over to my husband who was somewhat nonplussed at my glee.

“Are you that happy with the fruit?” he asked as I jitterbugged past, trying to calm the situation in the outback.

“I have an itch,” I answered, arms flailing as I executed enough moves to win the title on “So You Think You Can Dance.” I ricocheted off a display of fresh pineapples and careened into a stand of Georgia peaches.

“Is this something new?”

“No,” I answered as I jogged by, still attempting to quiet the fire without an unseemly public display. “I’ve kept it hidden from you for ten years so I could surprise you with my innermost secret in the melon section of WalMart in time for our anniversary.”

“Very thoughtful. Have we changed laundry detergent lately?”

By now I was scratching my sides like a monkey with mange. “It’s the same stuff. Just in that little bitty bottle.”

“Well you probably have enough soap in your underpants to clean a garbage barge. And you’re dancing around like a monkey.”

If he’d thrown me a banana I would have made fruit salad out of him. “Look, I’m finding out that the word hives doesn’t necessarily just apply to bees. Can we move a little faster down the solution highway?”

“Look, it’s in that little bitty bottle because it’s concentrated. Did you use the same amount as always?”

I tap danced over to look him in the face. “I used more because the measuring cup looked so little.”

“Let’s go to the household products section and indulge in a little light reading.”

Sure enough, in-depth research involving the small print on the back of the bottle of detergent (which Bill Dear read while I clogged back and forth past the bleach-added products) showed that the amount of detergent I used had the potential to turn the elastic in my underwear into a material that would defeat the Man of Steel and could be used to coerce terrorists into confessing the use of explosives, weapons of torture, and non-dairy coffee creamer.

My immediate problem was solved with a foxtrot through the lingerie section where I purchased replacement garments for the trip home where I promised to be more conscientious when it comes to reading directions.

Except on those pesky Sara Lee boxes that indicate the contents is intended for more than a single serving.